Her Infernal Majesty
by ink and ashes
Summary: All of Underland will depend upon what would one day become of their wonderfully mad friendship. Cinderella-themed, mostly A.U. Rewritten.


**THE PROLOGUE**

In a small valley surrounded by Weeping Willows with leaves of the most charming azure, lay a happy, humble village aptly-named Willow's Wake; south of Witzend and west of Ipalm, where the Tugley Wood dwindled, trailed off and wound through the mountains of Outland. Contrary to popular belief, the trees' namesake did not taint the natural gaiety of its people, nor did the sounds of tears dampen the joy of any passerby. In spite of the sad, depressed nature of the Willow trees, the residents of Willow's Wake had long ago taught their arbollian neighbors how to laugh and enjoy even the smallest ray of sunshine. Now, the trembling leaves would shine like golden sapphires all year round, even during the coldest, harshest winters; after all, one could not be merry when surrounded by sadness and sorrow. They were said to be the happiest trees apart from those that dwell within the royal ground of Marmoreal.

The village nestled in exotic flora and fauna was small with less than a hundred souls to call it home, but what it lacked in size it more than compensated for in color and beauty; rufous clay tiles covered the pointed roofs of each uniformed abode, the foundations of which were based in buff and white-painted cement. Each home possessed its own soul however, and was decorated in elaborate murals of rare gems and stained glass, pasted on its side like a distinctive tattoo. Above each mahogany doorway was an arch with the house number and the name of the family that dwelled within, written in gold and embossed with precious stones. Little gardens full of lush—and _talkative_—flowers surrounded the individual property lines, with a single cobblestone walkway extending from the front entry to intertwine with the few paths that littered and spiraled about the region until, eventually, they intersected with the main road that led away and into the other towns and cities of Underland.

Little more than twenty homes dotted the evergreen plains of Willow's Wake and though they all varied in size and decoration, there was one that stood apart from the rest; one home stood silhouetted against the early morning sun, larger and grander than all in the village. The address above the door read '_23 Kingsleigh_' and was dubbed Kingsleigh manor, where the notorious and much-loved Charles Kingsleigh lived with his atlas, his books and his growing family.

In his study that overlooked all of Willow's Wake stood a man, tall and tanned. Sepia eyes gazed lovingly at the homes of his people through the large window of his veranda, slowly cataloguing the minute details of this place he knew so well. The crow's feet that crinkled at the edge of his eyes revealed themselves as he smiled gently at the marble fountain that had been erected just two years past, covering the only well they had; the fountain was, in actuality, a self-pumping mechanism that brought the water to the surface and sanitized it so that the residents may drink and carry buckets to their homes without the tedious and laborious task of fetching the water in the old way. This latest invention of his—among his vast array of other gadgets, atop his various schematics and blueprints of things to come—had earned him enough merit that the sister Queens of Underland had nearly _demanded_ that this new and _splendiferous_ device be implemented everywhere with his name engraved on every piece. Now, Charles Kingsleigh was easily the richest man in all of Underland.

"I knew I'd find you here."

Far from surprised, Charles Kingsleigh turned towards the light, airy voice of his beautiful wife, the smile on his face widening at the sight of her tousled flaxen hair and sparkling cornflower blue eyes, glassy and still dreamy from sleep. Her smile was less exuberant, though not because her pleasure was in any way dimmed at the sight of her husband; her hands reflexively came to rest upon her large, swollen abdomen, ripe and nearly ready after eight months of enduring back aches, fatigue and general little maladies in her health. "My love," he breathed, crossing the room in three great strides and embracing her as tightly as he dared. "I hope I did not wake you." A gentle kiss was placed upon her brow. "You should not be out of bed."

Helen Kingsleigh nuzzled his collarbone, closing her eyes. She would not tell him that the cold air in the absence of his warmth had driven her to find him. "Would you have me confined to our bed until she comes? I fear you plan to fatten me up and serve me for dinner!" She giggled, "I have my eye on you, sir."

He chuckled, ready with a quip in return, but something in the way his wife had arranged her words made him pause. "'_She_'?"

Helen leaned back in the circle of his arms. "Aye," she confirmed, petting the telltale bump in question. The brilliance of her countenance was impossible to miss. "'Twill be a little lady, with the most _gorgeous_ eyes and the voice of an angel." There were tears that did not fall.

Charles found his throat had grown thick and useless. He had to clear it several times before he could speak. "How… how do you _know_ this?"

"She speaks to me," she answered, her voice low and secretive, "and I can see her, sometimes." She looked at him self-consciously, her cheeks rosy in embarrassment. "Do you think me mad?"

Speechless, he laughed, holding her tighter than before. Today, his beautiful village and its whimsical inhabitants will awaken in a flurry of nerves, rushing around to complete all of the last-minute preparations for the arrival of the benevolent White Queen—and nearly all of Underland. Today marked the beginning of summer and thus, May Day, a festival that would last until the summer solstice; young girls will tie flowers in their hair and young boys will strut and boast in their best clothes. The Maypole will be erected, and all of the young ones will dance and sing around it, holding its ribbons as they skipped and laughed all the while. At the end of the day, one lucky young girl will be selected as the Queen of May and the White Queen herself, in the spirit of the occasion, will crown her with an elaborate daisy chain and kneel to her; that young girl will then go on to lead the festivities for the next two months, when Underland will have tired of merriment and wish for nothing more than to sleep away the drinking and fatigue.

Inhaling the scent of his beautiful, _wonderful_ wife, Charles Kingsleigh knew that today would be a wonderful day. "All the best people are, my love."


End file.
